


#3: the… erm… other one

by sistersin7



Series: B&W Holiday Gift Exchange 2015 [3]
Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, PWP, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5545034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistersin7/pseuds/sistersin7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Helena opens her eyes and knows something is not quite right.<br/>The years she’d spent in bronze and the subsequent years she spent outside it left her with a true sense of proprioception: Helena G. Wells knows her own body, and whatever it is she is feeling now, is most definitely not her own body."</p>
            </blockquote>





	#3: the… erm… other one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kellsbells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellsbells/gifts).



> Believe it or not, this - too - started as a funny idea, but because my mind permanently resides in the gutter, that’s what it wound up as. Apologies.  
> (I'm also a little bit scared of posting this - there really is no point to this porn.)
> 
> [and much like the rest of the series, Bering&Wells have always been.]

Helena opens her eyes and knows something is not quite right.

The years she’d spent in bronze and the subsequent years she spent outside it left her with a true sense of proprioception: Helena G. Wells knows her own body, and whatever it is she is feeling now, is most definitely not her own body.

It’s hard for her to quantify or even articulate this sensation clearly – not even to herself – the fact that her face doesn’t feel like her own right now, because her own cheeks feel _different_ to this. She swallows, and she acknowledges that the roof of _her_ mouth feels different to this; and that these teeth are not _her_ teeth.

She can also feel fabric on her upper body. Cotton, to be exact. Helena did not go to sleep wearing something made out of cotton last night.

She feels her heart –– _No_.  

She feels _a_ heart quickening its pace in _a_ chest. She just happens to be the one feeling them. But they are not her own. That’s not how _her own_ heart feels.

Helena feels a pang of fear. It feels differently to what fear feels like in her own body. At least she thinks it’s fear - she is not entirely sure when emotions feel so differently. She closes her (for the sake of argument) eyes and takes a breath to steel herself, because she knows she needs to look down the body she is currently occupying, a body she knows is not hers.

And – yes – this thought scares the living daylight out of Helena G. Wells.

The voice in her mind is definitely her own, she decides, as she begins to convince herself: _You’ve faced things much more dreadful than this. Whatever it is_ , she hears the calm voice of her reason, _it is likely to be artefact-related and therefore temporary and reversible_.

She opens her eyes again, and with a deep breath she lowers her head, pressing a chin to a chest, and holds in the next breath as she looks down.

She is wearing a grey t-shirt with red block lettering on it: SCORPIONS.

The way the lettered t-shirt falls atop breasts leaves her to deduce that the breasts underneath are slightly larger and rounder than her own. This and the actual presence of the cotton top (a cotton top she knows well) are enough for her to form a theory: this is Myka’s body.

She turns her head sharply to the right to check if Myka is there – but that is not the correct side. Myka sleeps on the right side of the bed and Helena on the left. So she turns her head to the left, and quite astonishingly her theory is almost validated: to her left, is her own sleeping form. Helena’s, that is. And it is topless, much like she remembers falling asleep the night before.

Helena can’t help but look at herself, because she had never seen herself like this before. It’s different looking at one’s self in the mirror than looking at one’s self through someone else’s eyes, and while Helena’s mind is processing the presence and prevalence of wrinkles and creases and beauty marks she wasn’t quite so aware of through her reflection, the body she is in is responding do what it sees, almost by its own accord.

So while Helena’s mind is trawling though new ways for applying makeup more strategically, her mouth (that isn’t her own) starts to water, and her heart (that isn’t her own) picks up its pace, and her lungs (that aren’t her own) expand more readily, and her stomach (that isn’t her own) tightens, and – _goodness me_ – her mind stops thinking and starts paying attention to what not-her body is doing – arousal begins to pool at the pit of her stomach and the apex of her thighs, (none of which are her own).

Before she can do anything else, Helena rushes out of bed, out of their bedroom, quietly as she possibly could, into the shared bathroom down the hall at the B&B. In the dim light of dawn that seeps through the milky-glassed windows, she looks in the mirror.

Now, this looks different as well. Myka’s reflection _does not_ look like Myka: the quirked brow is on the wrong side. So is the side of the lip that stretches more readily than the other, and so is the freckle high on her cheek.

For a moment, Helena, who had seen and done and felt so many things during her tenure at Warehouses 12 and 13, cannot quite process this. This is new grounds, grounds she hadn’t – even as a writer of science fiction – considered _could_ happen.

But now that it has… her mind begins to unfold, unravel the possibilities…

She looks into Myka’s eyes in the mirror. They are a dark grey-ish green, smouldering with sleep that hasn’t left them yet. Helena knows this look well – she had encountered it so many times when she chose to wake Myka up with a touch, with a kiss. This is the look Myka grants her when she is ever so slightly upset she had been awakened prematurely, but – more importantly – acknowledges the want and the need to touch, to be touched, to let Helena finish what she started and then have her way with Helena until the alarm clock warns them to start getting ready for the day ahead.

And now it isn’t her body (neither hers, nor the one she is in) that’s responding to these thoughts, it’s her mind.

And Helena wonders…

She closes her eyes and braces not-herself with a left arm against the countertop and raises a right hand to brush back of fingernails against a right cheek – all the way across and up, opening the hand as she does so, until fingers sink into the messy mane, from just behind the ear until the nape of the neck.

Helena sighs with delight she has never experienced, because not only does her mind contend with the what Myka actually feels as she does this, it also contends with the memory of what Helena feels when she touches Myka like this.

Without thinking, Helena moves the thumb, which is placed in the hollow under Myka’s ear, in small gentle circles, and that delight turns to desire.

Helena’s eyes tear open and she is greeted with Myka’s scolding look in the mirror, because _Really, Helena_ , she hears Myka’s voice from her memory, _you should know better than to do_ that _, because you know what_ that _does to me_.

She closes her eyes again, because dealing with the dual perspective of sensory input is enough, she can’t be doing with dual perspectives of consciousness as well.

She excuses her curiosity to her scientific spirit because the questions that occupy her mind all revolve around ‘what it feels like from this perspective’, and she lets the hand fall from the juncture between shoulder and neck, down the front, scraping a semi-alert nipple under the shirt on the way, and down still across a taught belly, to the hem of underwear and past them to where she can feel tension building. Tension and heat. And moisture.

She reaches slowly, with fingers that aren’t her own but to the place she knows all too well. But it feels _different_ , because these aren’t her fingers that are slowly and gently exploring it. She momentarily loses control and not-her head falls back and a gasp falls from not-her lips when she feels what it’s like for Myka when she touches herself (and her mind compares and contrasts it with what it feels for Helena when she touches Myka in the exact same places) and she swears this is the most intense intimate experience she had ever had, so she reaches slightly deeper, in between…

There’s a knock on the door.

Helena freezes, stills all movement, stills her breath. Remains silent.

A few seconds later there is another knock.

“Mykes, come on…” Pete’s sleepy voice begs from behind the closed door.

Helena opens her eyes and sees a frazzled, worried Myka in the mirror. And Helena loves that look, because it’s exactly the same look Myka wears when Helena propositions her in places that are not the most appropriate, which makes perfect sense, because – this very moment – Myka is just about caught with her hand in the (Helena looks down and smirks) proverbial cookie jar.

Helena pulls not-her hand out slowly but with a purposeful light graze of an eager and wet bundle of nerves, while biting on not-her lip (and _this is delightful too_ , she thinks, _this little bit of pain Myka mixes with her pleasure_ , because now Helena feels just _how much_ pain Myka mixes with her pleasure when she bites on those luscious lips of hers), and opens her mouth to speak: “Give me a minute.”

The voice that comes out is Myka’s, the accent is Myka’s. This feels downright _strange_ – speaking through someone else’s mouth, using someone else’s jaw and tongue and teeth and lips; using someone else’s larynx and lungs and diaphragm; and how muscle memory overrides anything else, because it’s Myka’s diction and tonality that make themselves heard.

Helena washes not-her hands quickly and dries them, running hands through hair and she can’t help but pause because, heavens, Myka’s hair and scalp feel _incredible_ , but she lets go, and holds on to the doorknob while clearing not-her throat.

She opens the door.

“All yours,” she says with a quiet smile, casting a quick glance towards Pete’s sleepy expression and makes her way back down the hall.

“Wait,” Pete speaks clearly.

Helena turns around to look at him. His expression is less sleepy, his eyes narrow as he examines her, the way only Pete does, with a vibe-induced look. “What?” Helena tries to loosen not-her body, so it falls in Myka’s natural form.

“You okay?” his sleepiness is replaced with concern.

“Any reason why I wouldn’t be?” Helena tries to sound natural (which is hard, because the mouth she speaks through is not her mouth, and the tongue and teeth… it’s all so _bloody_ weird). She guesses she hasn’t done very well, because Pete’s eyes narrow even more, until he is practically squinting.

Then Pete twitches where he stands (nature’s call obviously getting louder) and Helena smiles – an opportunity has presented itself and she must capitalise on it. “Better deal with that,” she turns and walks away, “before it becomes a crisis,” she’s by Myka and hers’ bedroom door now, and she’s obviously too comfortable in having managed to evade Pete – she doesn’t even notice when she finishes her quip with a “darling”.

Pete, who rushes into the bathroom as soon as Myka turned away, thinks _the Tex Mex from last night must be transmitting on the same frequency as my vibes_ , and hears the faint “darling” just before he closes the bathroom door behind him.

It takes him, however, until the moment he washes his hands, while blearily observing his unshaved reflection in the bathroom mirror, to register it.

He freezes where he stands, shakes water off his hands and runs through the meet he just had with Myka. _Myka doesn’t say ‘darling_ ’, he thinks, unless this is that’s that Lesbian Twinsies Syndrome Claudia told him about, and Myka is turning into Helena.

That thought fires his imagination up in all sorts of ways that he knows better than to speak aloud, and they distract him from the vibe (or the Tex Mex-related feeling) he had a few moments ago, and he goes back to his room to sleep.

 

Myka stirs out of deep slumber in the bed she shares with Helena and she knows she she’s not in her own body.

Firstly, there is the fact she’s on the wrong side of the bed.

Secondly, there is the fact she woke up because her chest and shoulders were cold (and Myka always – _always_ – makes sure her chest and shoulders are covered, because she knows how to take care of herself).

So she opens her eyes.

Thirdly, there is the fact that every single colour and detail she sees look differently to the way they do through her own eyes.

Lastly, she knows what not being in her own body feels like because this has already happened to her.

“Oh, shit,” she whispers, and it comes out in a soft British accent and her eyes widen because it confirms to her that it’s Helena’s body she is in.

The doorknob to the bedroom is turning, and Myka looks down in a haste, fumbling for the sheet to cover her… well… Helena’s upper body; and she scrambles up towards the headboard so that she is ready to pounce if she needs to, but Helena’s body works differently to hers. Helena’s muscles are in different concentrations to where they are in Myka’s body, so she feels a little like she’s flailing.

In the two seconds before the door opens to reveal the person behind it, she panics and tries to think up how Helena greets people who step into their bedroom who disturb her when she’s alone; people who are not Myka.

Myka’s mind is suddenly hyper-logical. It explains to Myka that she (Myka) only has recollection of Helena greeting her (Myka), or greeting others when she (Myka) is present. It is, therefore, a realistic impossibility that she (Myka) would witness Helena greeting another person other than her (Myka) when Helena is alone. Thus, the answer to the query Myka presented her mind with in null.

The door creaks open and light pours in from the hallway and Myka recognises the foot (and the ankle) that appear from behind it. It is hers. Her real _hers_. (Not the _hers_ she is currently occupying).

“Helena?” Myka asks in a worried whisper, because she’s not sure this is a straight swap (artefacts are funny that way).

Helena brings not-her index finger to not-her lips to hush Myka. She closes the door behind her silently and rushes back towards the bed.

Myka watches _herself_ walk into the room, which somehow feels weirder than when she saw _herself_ sitting at a bar with Kurt Smoller a couple of years ago. She gawks – almost in disbelief – how elegantly Helena moves her body. She wonders if she moves with the same elegance (when it’s her moving her own body), or whether it’s Helena’s influence that gives her this grace of and fluidity of motion.

“Helena?” Myka asks again and watches herself nod as she settles under the covers. But a nod isn’t enough, she feels the need to verify that this _is_ Helena. “Tell me something only you and I know,” she says and already recognises Helena’s lewd, cocky grin on her own lips, and _holy crap_ , it turns her on, even though it’s plastered on her own face.

Helena bites on not-her lip, because the sensation is amazing. She could do this all day given half a chance, but the look in her own eyes, is occupied by Myka’s growing concern, so she tightens the bite for a second then says “Bramley,” then she settles on her back with her left arm under her head, the way Myka does when she invites her to curl against her and looks at her lover. “Our safe word is ‘Bramley’.”

Myka recognises the position Helena takes for her. When Myka takes this position, it’s to offer Helena stillness and calm and comfort, and right now Myka could certainly do with some. So she arranges herself around her own body (that is _so_ _fucking_ weird, how her own body feels from _the outside_ ) the way Helena would: head at the juncture of shoulder and chest, one arm folded between their bodies and the other across her (Myka’s) belly, one leg lazily draped across those the other’s.

The lay still for a moment.

Helena feels warmth spread through not-her and it amazes her how Myka's body responds to her own, and the question of – how, on earth, can Myka focus on anything around her, if this is how her body reacts to Helena’s presence – fleets into her mind; and her admiration for the agent increases ten-fold for being able to be the stupendous agent that she is while still feeling _this_.

Myka, who is still getting used to sensing the world through Helena’s body, is a bit overwhelmed by the tingling sensation Helena’s skin gets with every move of her (Myka’s) body, almost as though she can feel blood rushing to the points where they touch so that it can help focus the messages her nerves are sending to her brain. It makes her smile because she didn’t know Helena felt like this about her. She didn’t realise how powerful contact was for Helena, especially if it’s contact with her.

Myka is the one to end the momentary silence.

“I think I know when this happened,” she says, and she still can’t believe that she sounds like Helena, and she wonders how long she could keep this up, because Helena’s voice has an insane effect on her.

Which is just what Helena is finding out: the knot in her stomach tightens a little bit with every word Myka utters. She takes a breath, because she reckons Myka will soon realise exactly how reciprocal that feeling is, because there are times when Helena cannot contain herself when Myka speaks. “Indulge me, darling, as I do not believe I share the insight.”

Myka laughs quietly.

“What?” Helena asks, mock offended.

“It’s so weird…” she collects herself after Helena’s hand travelled up hers and she’s cocooned by her now, and Helena’s body relaxes into the hold. “You’re talking like you but sounding like me,” she repays Helena’s affectionate gesture by brushing her nose against the base of her neck.

(And Myka knows exactly what she feels when Helena does that, and she can feel her (Myka’s) abs contract and her (Myka’s) thighs twitch.)

Helena regains steady breath after Myka’s gentle nuzzle. “Allow me to rephrase, then,” she pauses and thinks. “Do you wanna share?”

Myka laughs again, and takes a minute to phrase her response.

“I believe it was two days ago, following the completion of my inventory duties in aisle Buffalo 55,” Myka tries her hardest not to giggle mid-sentence.

But Helena does. “Not bad, darling,” she presses not-her lips to her forehead.

Myka hums contentedly.

“What makes you say that?” Helena asks.

“We were walking back to the office and I remember feeling this…” she pauses again, “little punch, or a shock, and I stopped and I asked you if you felt that.”

“You did,” Helena confirms, “I remember you asking.”

“Even though there was no fudge, it kind of felt artefacty to me,” Myka concludes.

“What artefacts were around when you felt it?” Helena guides Myka through to her own eidetic memories.

Myka closes Helena’s eyes and wonders whether eidetic memory is physical; whether her memories are stored in _her brain_ , rather than Helena’s, and whether it’s Helena’s brain and memory she’s scanning but with _her own_ talent, and she gets herself confused with the anatomy of body swapping.

So she shakes her head and focuses on walking down the aisle. It was Winston 29 West. The shelves are pretty empty down Winston 29 West, because they are all mythical artefacts down there, and putting too many of them in one place tends to end badly.

She recalls:

_She walks with Helena down the aisle, she thanks Helena that she came down to help her with inventory, because otherwise it will have taken her two more hours. Helena smiles back at her and says that there is very little she wouldn’t do for her; and Myka smiles back and extended her arm towards Helena who falls into the embrace._

There. Right there.

That’s where it happened.

Now – what’s around?

Myka lists the artefacts on the shelves in the order she sees them, from left to right: “Chess pieces from the Isle of Lewis. Terracotta spears from China. Decorated Maasai shield from Central Africa. Teutonic helmet from Austria. Tribal stone etching from South America. Fossilised boomerang from Australia. Celtic belt from Wales. Whalebone from Siberia.”

“It’s the belt,” they say together.

Both Myka and Helena know about this belt: worn by Arwan, King of Annwn, during the year he had swapped bodies with Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed – according to Welsh mythology. The belt is activated when two parties, during an act of pure devotion, vow to help one another selflessly. The act must be sealed with a brace of the shoulder and within close proximity of the belt. The downside is the duration of the exchange – one whole year.

Both Myka and Helena also know that the belt can be neutralised, so there is no real concern for them being trapped in each other’s bodies for a year. There is no real risk in them staying the way that they are right now, so might as well make the most of the situation.

So Myka pushes herself up to look at Helena, but Helena is _her_ , and it’s bewilders her because she expected to see Helena’s brown eyes smiling up at her, but instead she sees _hers_.

Myka’s breath catches in Helena’s lungs. The effect her (Myka’s) eyes have on Helena is unparalleled. It’s like Helena just saw and smelled food after days of having nothing but water – every sense is heightened: sight (and she notices things in her (Myka’s) eyes that she never noticed before), sound (she hears breaths and heartbeats: her own and _her_ _own_ ), taste (her mouth waters with the anticipation of a taste Myka doesn’t recognise), touch (she feels every part of _her own_ body as it touches the body she’s in, and it feels electric), smell ( _her_ shampoo, and _her_ body wash, and _her_ sweat – but they smell differently to Helena than they do to her).

Something similar happens to Helena and she gives in to what Myka’s body is doing as those brown eyes smile delicately, half lidded, above her: not-her body feels like it’s warming up, from every tip of not-her farthest reaches down to not-her deepest pits; warming up until she liquefies and every touch disperses her.

They look into each other’s eyes for a short while, like they did when they first got together, before kissing became habit. They take this time to savour this feeling, an old sensation felt anew: a quickening of heartbeats, a softening of breaths, a spread of prickly warmth in chests and bellies, and they cannot resist the pull into a timid kiss, which might as well be their first.

It feels like a first kiss because neither of them felt the other like this before, and the taste is new and the feel of Helena’s tongue on Myka’s lips (a touch Myka initiates and Helena receives) is new to the both of them, even though they know it. They’ve done it a million times before.

Myka knows exactly how much she likes it when Helena nibbles on her bottom lip, sucks it gently into her mouth and grazes it with her teeth – so she does exactly that. What surprises her is how excited Helena’s body gets when she does that, and it almost matches up to being on the receiving end of this move.

Helena sighs deeply because she can’t believe what being kissed like that does to not-her. She’s not liquefying anymore. She’s boiling, violently, hot and seething. And she _gets it_ now, she gets why Myka is so impatient sometimes when they touch because, heaven help her, _this_ is what “not being able to contain one’s self” feels like. Like her whole body is waiting to catch fire, to be untethered, to be released.

But Helena also knows what _she_ feels when Myka asserts herself when they kiss, when she takes control and deepens the kiss and pushes her fingers into her hair and pushes Helena onto her back.

So she does just that, and she absolutely loves the feel of having Myka’s strength.

Myka feels powerless, not only because Helena’s body doesn’t have the strength Myka’s has, but also because Helena is doing all the right things. She does, however, recognise the technique Helena is applying, which makes her smile into the moan that escapes her.

Helena breaks the kiss and looks into her eyes. They aren’t her own eyes the way she knows them. They are different, she can see Myka in them. “It’s the belt,” she whispers as she pushes into the warm body beneath her. She feels it tensing under her touch, and not-her body tenses in kind. “We just have to go to the Warehouse and neutralise it,” she leans closer, ghosts not-her lips to her own.

“But it’s so early,” Myka want to stay serious, but allows Helena’s playfulness take over, “Can we not stay in bed a bit longer, Agent Bering?” she enunciates her name by design, and almost regrets it, because she responds in Helena’s body to Helena’s voice saying her name _like that_ ; and the body above her responds to hearing Myka’s name _like that_ – in an almost Pavlovian manner.

Helena releases a strangled sigh as desire floods the whole of not-her and she well and truly cannot contain herself, because Myka’s body feels so tense, so ready, so primed – it is _begging_ to be touched. Helena has observed it many a times, but she’s never felt it. She doesn’t know how Myka can stay so taut and not recoil. Or explode. Or implode. Or beg Helena to take her already.

Somewhere, at the back of her mind, she apologises to Myka for all the times she toyed with her when she was in this state, because Helena cannot imagine what it would be like to have Myka, as herself, do that right now: limit her touch to her upper body. Or fixate on her fingers alone. Or tie her up and rake her skin with a variety of objects.

Helena breaks. A profanity of sorts, falls from not-her lips just before they press up to the ones not half an inch away from them.

Myka growls a wicked laugh and drags a hand down her own body.

Her mind is split: a part of her thinks this is odd and possibly slightly perverse that she will be touching _herself_ like this, taking such pleasure in touching _herself_ like this, getting off on touching _herself_ like this; because this isn’t like masturbating. This is like making love to herself, because she can see herself and feel herself and the body she is in (that is not her own) just responds to _her_ _own_ _body_ in a profound and obscene way.

The other part of her thinks that this could be the most phenomenal sex they’ve ever had. A real out of body experience, pardon her pun. She’s already got some sneak previews – how Helena’s body responds to words, to ideas, to touches – how muscle memory in the body she’s in simply does _things_ that are so exhilarating and tantalizing: once as the purveyor of excitement, and once with the memory of the recipient.

Until now, Myka’s only felt it through small acts that were mostly not deliberate. She thinks that enticing Helena’s body in a planned, calculated way would be amazing. She wishes for curiosity get the better of her because she really wants to feel what Helena feels when they touch. She also wants Helena to feel what she feels when Helena touches her.

Like right now, when Helena feels how tight Myka’s whole body becomes as it anticipates Helena to relieve it of its pressure.

“You’re there, aren’t you?” Myka asks, gauging the reason Helena’s swearing.

“How––“ Helena runs out of breath when she feels dull fingernails and calloused fingertips push under the hem of that abominable cotton tee, up not-her sides, around not-her breasts to graze not-her nipples. But she knows how Myka’s body would respond, because she does this to Myka all the time. The sensation hits her as the pink buds tighten under wretched fingers that continue to tease mercilessly.

“How what?” Myka hardens the touch around breasts, around nipples. She knows they feel hard for her when she’s in her own body. To Helena, however, they are aren’t hard at all. They are resistant, but pliable.

“How do you let me––“ Helena bites on not-her lip to muffle an uncontrollable cry as she feels a finger and a thumb close around an eager tip – and pull.

“How do I let you play with me?” Myka reverses their positions. She doesn’t need her own strength to shift their bodies around, much like Helena doesn’t need it when she gets her (Myka) to this state.

Helena hardens the bite on that lip to match Myka’s pinch. All she can do is nod stiffly to answer Myka’s question.

Myka feels Helena’s exposed breasts ache to be touched, responding to the need she elicits in _her own_ body, in Helena; so she does what Helena does, which she never knew was something Helena did to relieve an ache: she drags her breasts against _her_ body and presses them against the clothed chest below.

She beings trailing hungry kisses along the long column of her neck, to which Helena responds with gasps and mewls. Myka recognises these noises as her own neediness (and she cringes a little initially), but they ignite Helena’s core and Myka feels arousal collecting slowly between her thighs, so whatever she _thinks_ she sounds like doesn’t matter anymore, because Helena obviously likes it.

Myka reaches the hollow under her ear, a spot that evaporates her when Helena kisses or nips or tickles, and she paints small, precise designs with the tip of Helena’s tongue.

A different profanity falls from not-Helena’s lips, this time prefaced by a request.

Myka chuckles and pushes herself up to admire her handiwork. The part of her that wished she let her curiosity take control is pleased with what it sees: a beautiful woman, pulsing, aching to be had.

The other part can’t quite believe this is what she looks like when Helena touches her.

But Helena’s body likes how she looks: every nerve ending tunes itself to both their bodies, and it’s a glorious feeling, this hyper awareness of both their physical presences. It makes sense to Myka how Helena is able to do the things that she does to her, now that she feels how she feels.

Helena is lost, quite literally lost in the wealth of input that flows through Myka’s nervous system, like she would have been in the corridors of the British Library or the Catacombs of Paris. There is so much to take in. The complex pathways overlap and interconnect and every time a signal passes a path it had been on before it amplifies exponentially to a point Helena forgets to breathe, to a point not-her heart forgets to beat.

In the short respites Myka grants her she finds it in herself to admit she’s a little bit jealous of Myka that she _feels_ in this way because there is no doubt in Helena’s mind that she is alive this very moment, that her life is being pulled apart and put together again with every wisp of air or smooth of lips or scrape of fingers.

“Please,” Helena gasps with the remainder of a breath she’s been holding for long minutes, “Please, Myka, please, please” she pleads, and she never pleads. Helena Wells never pleaded for anything in her life, so these words are not foreign to her because they come out sounding like Myka, but because she never spoke them before.

“You _are_ there,” Myka husks wickedly through Helena’s voice, “you can feel _everything_ , can’t you?” she rearranges herself so she half-covers the body Helena’s in, aligns mounds with dips, and their bodies fit so perfectly together. “It’s like Russian roulette,” she nudges her thigh up a bit and Helena writhes at the introduction of friction, “’will it be this touch that makes me combust?’” she verbalises what goes through Helena’s mind right now, what goes through her own mind whenever Helena drives her to this place, “’or the next?’”

Helena can’t believe how cruel Myka is, teasing her with words, teasing her with a promise of an explosive grand finale, teasing her with a thigh and a pelvis and an abdomen and breasts. But she cannot articulate it as cruelty, because she _needs_ to be touched. She _needs_ it, or – honest to all the gods that are out there – Helena believes she will perish.

But Myka isn’t cruel. She isn’t prolonging Helena’s perilous teetering on the edge for more than it takes her to fathom Helena’s pleasure. Myka understands now that sometimes, what she thinks is Helena torturing her, is Helena really savouring their contact, savouring the feel of where and how their bodies connect. And now, that Myka reaches questing fingertips to a waist, to the waistband of the briefs she sleeps in, every place she touches feels over-heated, over-sensitive. Helena’s body is absorbing this energy and it streams right to the centre of this oh-so-aware body she is in.

Myka places a sure hand over her hip and pushes gently, grinding Helena’s body across her own once.

Twice.

And Helena comes apart in her body, and she shatters in Helena’s above her.

It’s a harsh, fast and powerful release for the both of them, but neither relaxes in the afterglow. The sensations they are experiencing are far too new and different and incredible and enticing for either of them to not want to experience more; to experiment more.

“I take it we’re not going to the Warehouse,” Helena checks.

“No,” Myka answers and waits for her lover to take her turn.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you - as always - for reading.


End file.
